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I've been almost normal now for three years and three months. Doesn't sound much when you look at it like that. I know for most people that's no great achievement, but most people don't have to work so hard at it. I suppose I was normal as a child too, before things went wrong, but my memory of the time before is all a bit hazy.
The therapists say you have to accept the things you've done. Own the deeds so they don't own you. I get that, I really do. For those around you, for your own future and lots of other reasons, you can't hide from your actions. Even if you don't remember all of them, they were still done by your hand. They still left a mark.
So I've embraced the bad in me, come to an accommodation with it. A way to live and not be ruled by it. I still can't say how much was my fault, but I realise that doesn't matter. No way that conversation does any good for anyone. And this isn't that story anyway. I'm not here to tell you how I came to the accommodation. This is what followed, three years and three months later.
I should start again. My name is Eve. I'm 29 years old, single and work as a chef in a London pub. And I have a devil in me. It's not as cool as you might think.